


teach me to swim

by softsocky



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Band Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Short & Sweet, also, but dont have a solid enough appearance to be listed tbh, stage/band names are used rather than their full names like usual, the other members are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/softsocky
Summary: Some days, the love isn’t there. The love for this world that Fantagio had created them, and that they now lived in. Some days, the motivation and the desire and the dream just isn’t there. But Sanha? Sanha was always there.





	teach me to swim

Somewhere along the line, he had become known as _Dependable Rocky_. It was charming, actually, and something he had grown rather proud of. As the second youngest, Rocky claimed it as somewhat of an honour to be given such a label, especially when it could have easily been something different. Most days, he held his head high with little insecurity. But, like everyone, Rocky _was_ insecure about some things. Often, it was his height. Sometimes, he felt less valuable due to his sometimes-limited input vocally on their albums. Other times, it was his inability to mesh well in interviews. There were lots of things, _little_ things, that would stab him for just a moment before he was reminded how well-loved and treasured he was. 

Sometimes, though, sometimes that’s not always enough. The worst times, when the insecurity is like an ocean, and he’s a measly little leaf floating along in the current, he feels it creep up on him when he’s not expecting it too, and encroaches on him so quickly that he has no time to _stop it._ He knew that the tightening of his chest implied panic, and that the sweat on his palms and the rate at which his heart beat and the laboured heaving of his chest all pointed towards panic _attack_. He’d had many in his life, some better than others, during most of them, the techniques he had learned would allow him to raise his head out of the watery depths – sometimes, although the most rare, Rocky will just watch himself drown. The worst times, _the very worst times_ , when the oceans are higher than normal, the waves rougher, are times like _now_.

They had just gotten back from a rehearsal for a performance later in the week, and Rocky found himself sinking low into his mattress, relishing the feeling of the cool sheets against his hot skin. The shower was occupied, a problem he constantly found sharing one bathroom with five others. The others would often argue, quarrel, even, like old married couples, about who got to shower first. Usually, Jin Jin would use his leader status and always win, but, more often than not, he’d hand that over to MJ because he was too damn _sweet_ sometimes. Sometimes, though, it would be Eunwoo who’d win – he’d play up his puppy eyes and tease Sanha into relenting, and then he’d drag Moonbin with him and they’d share the time together. After the first few times of this happening, it was starting to happen less and less; the oldest two members realising that they were taking _too long_ and were making too much noise, so they had to go later, or shower separately. But Rocky? Rocky was always to shower last.

It was more a choice than a position in which he’d been forced into. At first, he used to bicker with all of them, and once or twice had won and gotten to shower first. Over time, he’d grown tired of it – the voices too loud, too many people crowded into a small hallway. It made his head spin thinking about it. So, he relented, came home sweaty and uncomfortable but sunk into the sheets anyways, fully-clothed. He’d lay face-down on the pillow, and if the water was loud enough, and someone had their music playing, he’d scream into the feathers.

Just like tonight.

Tonight, however, he didn’t wait for the music or the water to start running. He just screamed for as long and as loud as he could into the pillow, a pathetic attempt at releasing the pent-up anger he had been supressing since the start of rehearsal. Or perhaps not anger, but _disappointment._ Not in any of the other members – no, not _ever_ – but in himself, which was somehow worse. He’d messed a move up, receiving a few harmless laughs from the guys at the time, but the mistake was quickly forgotten. Even Dependable Rocky made mistakes sometimes.

He scoffed into the pillow now, ignoring the silence of the dormitory, knowing full-well the others had heard his scream despite it being muffled. He scoffed _again_ , knowing he’d have to explain it to someone later, and they’d pester him until he’d crack, and then the tears would surely come out to play. Rocky crying was never a pleasant sight. Not because he had one of those horribly ugly crying faces, but because once he started, it was nearly impossible to stop. He’d cry until he could no longer feel anything. Till his eyes were so swollen he could barely see from them, his lips bitten between worrying teeth, bleeding and chapped and _painfully dry._ He’d be so exhausted afterwards, he’d drift straight to a nightmarish sleep, where he’d toss and turn and awaken in the morning with a coarse throat and in a foul mood.

The others had learnt how to deal with this type of Rocky. The Rocky where the dependable starts to break down and his shoulders start to get chips in them. The stony surface of his stage persona starts to bleed out into his off-stage life, and soon, the lines begin to blur so much he can’t differentiate anymore, and neither can the boys. And then, as a result, there’s this flurry of confusion and anger sitting high and low in the air, that suffocates the boys almost as much as it suffocates Rocky. They knew about his breathing techniques, which he found the most helpful. They knew that when things got really bad, they could hold his hands and do it themselves, and hope that maybe he’d mimic them and drag himself out.

He rolls onto his side, facing the wall, letting out a harsh gasp at being able to breath properly again. He looked at the specs of dust floating in his eyesight, the pencil-drawn scribbles on his wall from his band mates, something management would be pissed about if they found out they were doing it. He looks at one of them, a smallish one that Moonbin drew him the first week they moved in.

Not an artist to any extreme, Moonbin had merely drawn two stick figures holding hands, with a cheesy little _M+M_ underneath it. Besides that, Eunwoo had drawn another stick figure, himself, with zig-zagging lines coming from his head. The stick figure itself was a tiny bit more elaborate in that Eunwoo had made himself look jealous at Moonbin’s drawing, something that, at the time, made Rocky hysterical. But now, it made him feel guilty. Guilty that maybe Eunwoo sometimes still does feel jealous of Moonbin and his’ history together. Nothing ever romantic – a thought that made Rocky cringe – but close enough to people looking in, they were best friends from the moment they met at Fantagio all those years ago. What if he were the reason they split up one day? Eunwoo had patience, but maybe not as much as they all think he has – what if the joke one day is no longer funny to him, and makes Moonbin decide on who he likes more? What if he picks Eunwoo? _What if he doesn’t choose Eunwoo?_

Rocky shook his head, hoping to shake away the stupid thoughts. He managed to some degree, as he allowed himself to look at Jin Jin’s and MJ’s drawings. They’d done it together, when Rocky wasn’t home. He’d returned late one night to the colourful scribbles on his wall, making him laugh and cry at the same time. It was a very poor attempt at his self-portrait, although, one could guess it to be some type of anatomical drawing of an insect, and you could not deny the similarity. The only thing truly identifying him as _him_ was the quote-bubble around his head, with _SWAG_ written largely in black pencil.

The last drawing, though, was done by Sanha. It was no surprise that he had gone all-out. It was the largest drawing on the wall, matching that of its artist, he supposed. It was a pink love heart, garish and tacky, and reminding him far too much of cheap valentine’s day gift cards, which had been, uncannily, the day Sanha had drawn it two years ago. _Valentine’s Day Pink_ , Sanha called it, with small red hearts drawn inside it, floating around like butterflies – or like Rocky is floating right now in the ocean of his panic. Overtop of the little red hearts, and the big heart itself, Sanha had written – messily, in his chicken-scratch handwriting that was, more often than not, illegible – in block letters ‘ _I love Park Minhyuk 4 Ever!’_

Rocky traced the letters with his index finger now, feeling the grooves of the wall, remembering the way he watched Sanha’s face instead of his hands drawing it. They were home alone when he’d brought out the pencils, lying in bed together, facing each other, and not saying much. Rocky had been drifting in and out of sleep, much like he is now, but remembers kissing Sanha’s cheeks and holding his hand. He remembers, at one point, lying his head on Sanha’s chest, so he could listen to his heartbeat – _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump_ – and make himself feel so much more grounded. Rocky may be Dependable Rocky, but Rocky depended on Sanha most. Sanha had crawled out of his arms, twisting and squealing, and had begun to draw the wobbly heart, free-handed. Rocky remembers sitting up in bed behind him, feeling the boys soft skin against his chest, the curve of his spine rubbing against his bare skin. He knew what Sanha was up to, but paid no mind. He was much more interested in resting his head on the younger boy’s shoulder, eyes opening and closing as he tried to decide if he were awake or asleep. He recalls pressing kisses on Sanha’s bare shoulder, on the side of his neck, under his ear, and listening to the cute little giggles he’d let out as he continued to draw. The feeling of Sanha’s stomach muscles tightening and clenching under his arm as he wrapped his free hand around his waist, sits vivid and alive in his memory.

The entire concoction of the memory was almost enough to drag his head above water, _almost._

But it was _never enough_ in times like this. With the shower water running in the room next door, the breeze making the blind slap against the window frame, and the vibration of music playing in the kitchen. It was never enough to shut his mind up, to make the water stop moving and sloshing around like someone was repeatedly stirring it all up – only for him to realise that he was the one doing it to himself. No matter how many times he realised this, he couldn’t find any part of him able enough to stop it.

He barely noticed the sound of the bedroom door opening and closing, the shoes being kicked off feet, the sound of a shirt being stripped off a body and thrown to the floor. He did notice, however, the sinking of the mattress as the other body slid in beside him. He noticed the arm wrapping around his waist, tugging him against _their_ chest, so his back was flush with their skin. He noticed the hand reaching out in front of him, tracing the heart, just like he had done, and when they went to pull away, he snatched at that same hand, and tugged it close to his chest.

Sanha sighed deeply into his ear, pressing a sweet kiss to his temple. “I love you, Park Minhyuk.” His voice was like a breathy dream, like a calm wave amidst all the rough.

Rocky could hear another noise – a noise clinging to the inside of his ears, like it was inside him, and it took him a moment to realise that it was him, crying. Sanha’s hold intensified, because his boyfriend knew that the tighter he held, the more human Rocky felt. And human was important, because Rocky knew that sometimes he forgot that that was what he was, and that mistakes are made and errors exist where humans do, too. And Sanha believes that if he remembers he’s human, that he’ll accept his mistakes and swallow them down and not be paralysed by them later.

And Rocky has tried – he has, he promises Sanha that he has. He tells him that now, again, over and over. Or at least he’s sure he’s saying it, he can’t distinguish between his dreams and his words right now, but by the way Sanha is shushing him and cooing in his ear and brushing his hair aside so he can pepper kissing along his hairline, it’s an indication that he’s heard him.

Later on, when the crying has stopped, and Rocky finds that his head is above water, and oxygen fills his lungs. He finds himself forever grateful to the arms around him, more so to the body to which they are attached, the heart that beats there. The lips that had whispered into his hear – _I love you, Park Minhyuk –_ then whispered him out of bed, out into the dark dormitory and into the dull light of the kitchen. The others were in the lounge room, a movie playing quietly as they lazed in the air conditioning, curled in on each other in comfort. But in the kitchen, Sanha lifted him to the kitchen bench, like he weighed nothing to him at all. Moments like this, Rocky felt smaller than ever, body and soul, and he hazily watched Sanha boil the kettle and warm a jug of milk. He watched the younger boys arms work as he flapped around the kitchen without a sound, and soon, he was handing him a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

He hummed into the mug, eyes slipping closed as he felt the warmth slip down his throat, warming his entire body. He knew it wasn’t cold, but the waves of the water had left him feeling exhausted and weak and the sugary warmth was peaking him back up again, exciting his senses. But what excited him more was Sanha standing in front of him, hands on his thighs, curling around his knees. His lips gingerly pressing against his, most likely tasking the chocolate on his lips, on his tongue. One of Sanha’s hands went to his hair, tugged it a little, before smoothing it all back down. Rocky was left a little more breathless than normal, what with that way Sanha could make his stomach feel and his brain feel and his heart feel. When Sanha pulled away, Rocky watched his tongue dart out to lick his lips, followed by a little inconspicuous _mmm,_ to which Rocky smirked at. He sneakily took a sip of the boy’s hot chocolate, pressed another kiss to his boyfriends puffy, dry lips, before allowing Rocky to sink his head into the curve of his neck.

Some days, the love isn’t there. The love for this world that Fantagio had created them, and that they now lived in. Some days, the motivation and the desire and the dream just _isn’t there._ The sanity and the freedom is gone, lost with all his strength and self-esteem and appreciation. Sometimes, there’s _nothing there._ But Sanha? Sanha was always there.

With Rocky sitting on the counter, their height difference wasn’t as noticeable, and Rocky was able to sink into Sanha’s senses, an ocean all on their own. But Sanha was an ocean Rocky didn’t mind drowning in, because he knew that this boy, the one that he _loved_ , loved him back enough to drag him out to breathe again.

Some days, he feels like they’re drowning together – but on those days, Rocky realises that it’s not really drowning, but more so, just learning to swim.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this bc i was emo that rocky was having a hard time and it kinda cleansed my soul a tiny bit writing it, because i hope the boys are lvoing him and looking out for him
> 
> p.s a BINU fic is on its way!! i am in the process of writing it but it is taking a little longer than expected because im moving house and ive been sick and the words arent flowing as easily! but enjoy this!!!!   
> xoxox


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